In her first life, she had died because of this room—or rather, because she hadn't understood how to survive it.
The Council froze. Some half-rose from their seats; others stiffened mid-breath. Only Duke Rothwell remained steady, his posture rigid, eyes narrowing like a commander sensing blood on the wind.
Footsteps broke the silence—measured, deliberate. The stride of a man who feared neither doorways nor nobles.
Seraphina's breath caught. Her hand hovered near Viscount Varrow's wrist, his arm frozen mid-strike. She slowly lowered her hand to her side, forcing her expression into court-perfect composure as she turned in her seat. She forced her breath to remain even, though her pulse thundered in her ears like cavalry charges. Her face remained composed as she slowly twisted in her seat. Court-perfect. Protocol-steel.
She had felt this presence once before. This specific, coiling energy that made the air itself feel heavier. Her blood turned to ice. He shouldn't be here.
Third Prince Ilyas Vaelstrine entered with controlled precision. His silver hair, bound loosely at the nape, tumbled over one shoulder. His black coat absorbed the torchlight, its dark sigils of crescents and serpents shifting faintly when he moved.
Not handsome in the golden, thunder-bright way of the First Prince—no. Ilyas's beauty was quieter, the kind that asked nothing and promised everything. Lethal. Elegant. Observant. His eyes—a shade of blue lighter than his father's glacial gaze but no less piercing—swept the Council with lazy assessment, cataloging reactions, measuring fear and favor.
The chamber contracted around him. A ripple of unease spread through the Council. Lady Mirabel's fan clicked nervously. Duke Rothwell inclined his head in cautious acknowledgment. Baron Faraday's hands twitched. Viscount Varrow nearly toppled from his chair in his haste to bow.
The Third Prince. Here. Now. When James's absence had already disrupted whatever schemes had been set in motion, when the Council teetered on the edge of chaos, when her own House's questionable loyalties hung in the air like a noose waiting to tighten.
"I heard from the hallway," he said, voice soft enough to thread silk through glass, "that we were discussing the Marquess. Again." The word dripped with feigned sorrow. "How tragic that Commander Celosia occupies so much of our time, even when absent."
Seraphina's fingers tightened against her skirts. She could feel his gaze—subtle warmth brushing her back like a serpent testing skin for weakness. His presence here was a deviation from the pattern she remembered, which meant either her knowledge was incomplete, or her actions had already begun altering the timeline.
He stepped closer, making her spine itch with the lack of propriety. "And of course," he murmured, "the matter of alliances… of loyalties." He paused behind her chair and gripped its back, leaning over her. "Houses that seem torn between futures."
A loose silver lock of his hair draped across her shoulder. "What does one do when loyalties twist as easily as silk through one's fingers? Some decide with sword. Others with whispered words. And some with shadows."
Seraphina felt revulsion crawl across her skin, but she forced herself to remain still, to breathe evenly. In her first life, she had learned too late what happened when you showed weakness to predators like Ilyas.
A memory flared: House Araminta's drawing room in her first life. Her mother dragging her home after James went missing. Garrick forcing her into a dress. Ilyas visiting like a quiet shadow, offering polite comments that carried threats in the spaces between words.
"Minor houses can be the fulcrum of great change," he had said then. "One careful suggestion here, a delicate question there, and a dynasty bends without ever realizing it has done so."
And then, with a smile: Lady Celosia should remarry—perhaps Earl Sylvester. A kind man, if you ask his last three dead wives.
She remembered leaping to her feet, trembling with rage. Garrick forcing her down with a warning that Ilyas could execute her on a whim.
Now that same cold energy pressed at her back.
"And you, Miss Seraphina," he murmured, voice lowering so only she could hear, disgust coating her with his use of her first name. "Would place yourself here. In the center of decisions that might topple houses, break alliances… even ruin men."
His fingers brushed the carved top of her chair—intimate enough to draw court scandals.
"Do you act out of loyalty, or fear? And if fear, fear of what… the King? Your betrothed? Or the consequences you cannot yet see?"
Duke Rothwell cleared his throat. "Your Highness, the Council was merely—"
"Considering declaring the Marquess dead," Ilyas said smoothly, like poison laced in honey. "I heard it from the hallway. Varrow, was it? Or Faraday? I do so lose track of your useless names." His faint smile didn't falter. "Do continue. I wouldn't dream of interrupting."
And then he did something every noble present felt immediately: he sat. Not in one of the carefully prepared seats of the Council. But in the King's throne, the one that always demanded reverence, that glowed with centuries of authority, that should have crushed all arrogance with its mere presence. He lounged in the throne as though it had been made for him, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm against the armrest. The torches flickered, casting his shadow long and distorted across the marble floor, reaching toward Seraphina like grasping fingers. Outside, the windows turned dark with the setting of the sun.
In her first life, Ilyas had visited her family in subtle ways. Deals made in shadows, suggestions planted like seeds.
"House Araminta must choose carefully which fires to feed, lest the flame consume what it warms."
The sleepless nights, the delicate dances of protocol, the ever-present dread that any misstep could invite ruin—or worse, manipulation.
In this life, with the Council tense and the Marquess missing, she could feel the old danger returning. Ilyas was a master of psychological assault: the tilt of a head, the glimmer of a smile, the faint warmth of his hand near her shoulder—each a probe into fear, loyalty, and ambition.
With a smirk like a fist curled around a sparrow, Prince Ilyas leaned forward and placed his face in his hands.
"Let's continue this talk of quiet murder," he said softly, "because if Marquess Celosia falls, the First Prince falls next."
The words landed like a blade drawn across silk—silent, but severing everything beneath. The chamber went deathly still. Even the torches seemed to dim.
This was it. The moment when Ilyas would begin threading his web through the Council, binding them to his cause through fear and insinuation. In her first life, she had watched from the sidelines as the Third Prince maneuvered the kingdom toward civil war. She had been too lost in grief, too broken by James's disappearance, too manipulated by her family's desperation to see the pattern until it was too late.
She would not let him succeed.
But before she could formulate a response—
The crash of doors flung open with violent force.
᯽
Every head snapped toward the entrance.
Seraphina's heart seized, recognition flooding her veins before her eyes confirmed what her instincts already knew.
The silhouette in the doorway was broad-shouldered, tall, wrapped in dust and grime. The faint metallic scent of blood and leather preceded him like an announcement. His armor was shattered in places, the black leather torn to reveal steel beneath, both marked with gouges that spoke of brutal combat. Blood soaked him so thoroughly it appeared nearly black in the torchlight.
Marquess James Celosia.
Alive.
He stepped forward, each stride heavy, leaving drops of blood across the marble. A deep wound tore across his side, hastily bound. Another split his eyebrow.
But it was his eyes that captured Seraphina's attention. Stark violet, burning with the kind of fury that came from surviving what should have been certain death.
Relief flooded her so profoundly it nearly unmade her. The future she had feared—the timeline where his death sparked cascading disasters—had not yet come to pass.
His gaze found hers, and beneath the restrained fury she saw confusion. Question. As though trying to understand why she was here, in this chamber, surrounded by vultures who had been picking at his corpse before it was even cold.
The Councilors remained frozen in a tableau of shock and guilt. James's eyes flicked to Rothwell—acknowledgment without warmth—then swept the chamber once more before settling on Seraphina.
Behind him, barely visible in the doorway's shadows, stood four soldiers in similarly battered condition. One had an arm in a makeshift sling. Another leaned heavily on a pike serving as crutch rather than weapon. All bore the hollow-eyed exhaustion of men who had ridden through hell.
The silence stretched.
James took one step forward, boots striking marble with the finality of a judge's gavel. Blood dripped from beneath his armor, pattering against stone.
"I see," he said, voice rough as gravel dragged over broken glass, "that my absence has been... productive for some." His gaze found Varrow, pinning him like an insect to a board. "Tell me, Viscount—were you planning to wait for my body to grow cold before dividing my command? Or had you already started drafting the orders?"
Varrow's face drained of color. "Marquess Celosia, I—we thought—the reports said—"
"The reports were apparently premature," James interrupted, each word precisely enunciated. "As are any discussions of my succession, my command, or my ability to fulfill my duties to the Crown." He swayed slightly before locking his knees with visible effort. "Unless someone here has intelligence suggesting otherwise?"
The question hung like a blade. No one answered.
Seraphina watched it all from her position near his empty chair. She watched the Council's calculations reset in real-time, saw alliances shift like sand beneath tide, felt the political landscape reshape itself around the simple fact of James's continued existence.
His gaze swept over her—methodical, assessing. She felt exposed, as though every secret lay bare beneath that scrutiny. His expression remained unreadable: no warmth, no recognition of intimacy. Just the cool assessment of a commander evaluating an asset.
Or a liability.
Seraphina lifted her chin, refusing to look away. She had faced him in dreams and nightmares, had carried the weight of betraying him through death and rebirth, had stood before a King whose bloodline could summon dragons. She would not flinch now.
"Marquess Celosia," she said, voice steady. "You honor us with your presence."
One dark eyebrow lifted. Surprise flickered across his features, quickly suppressed but unmistakable. Then the mask slammed back into place, and he was once again the Commander of Valenfort, the Mad Dog of the King.
You magnificent fool, she thought. You're going to get yourself killed proving a point.
Lady Mirabel recovered first, rising with fluid grace. "Marquess Celosia. We are... profoundly relieved to see you returned. The reports were indeed dire. An ambush, we understand?"
"Among other things," James replied darkly. His gaze shifted, finding Prince Ilyas still lounging in the King's throne.
The Third Prince's expression had gone cold and calculating, measuring this new variable with the precision of a chess master whose favorite gambit had just been countered.
"Marquess Celosia," Ilyas said smoothly. "How... unexpected. We had heard reports of an ambush. The Council was just discussing the appropriate response to your... unfortunate absence."
James's jaw tightened. He took another step, boots tracking crimson across pristine marble. "Were you discussing my absence. Or celebrating it."
The accusation hung sharp and undeniable. Several Councilors flinched. Varrow made a strangled sound.
Ilyas's smile widened fractionally. "Now, Marquess, why would we celebrate? You are, after all, one of the Crown's most valuable assets. Your loss would be... tragic."
In her first life, Seraphina had never seen them in the same room. James had been killed before such a meeting could occur, and Prince Ilyas had maneuvered in the shadows, pulling strings and collecting allegiances. She had learned that the Third Prince's ambitions ran deeper than mere succession, that his network had infiltrated every level of power, that when he smiled, someone somewhere was already dying.
"Third Prince Ilyas," James acknowledged carefully. "I did not expect to find you at Court. Last I heard, you were managing the eastern territories."
"When word reached me of your... disappearance, I thought it prudent to return. To ensure the realm remained stable in your absence." Ilyas's gaze flickered to Seraphina for a heartbeat. "And to ensure that certain parties did not exploit that absence for their own gain."
"How thoughtful," James said dryly, though Seraphina caught the edge beneath his words. "Though I would have thought the First Prince, as heir, would be better suited to maintaining stability."
There it was. The line drawn in sand. James declaring his allegiance plainly, reminding everyone that his loyalty lay with Prince Aldric—the King's chosen heir, the man whose claim was birthright rather than ambition.
"I survived," James said flatly, his gaze sweeping the chamber before settling back on Ilyas. "Despite the coordinated assault. Despite the shadowcasters and cavalry and archers positioned on the ridges. Despite someone providing detailed information about my route, my timing, my escort's composition." His eyes narrowed. "Someone wanted me dead badly enough to commit significant resources to ensuring it."
Ilyas's smile didn't waver, but something cold flickered behind his eyes. "A terrible thing. My dear brother has many strengths—military strategy, battlefield command, inspiring loyalty among soldiers." He paused, letting implications settle. "Court politics, however, are not among them. Someone needed to ensure the Council did not tear itself apart in your absence. Someone who understands that power is not merely won on battlefields, but in chambers like this one."
"Is that what this was?" James asked, deceptively mild. He gestured to encompass the chamber. "An exercise in political stability? It looks rather more like a witch hunt to me."
Ilyas's gaze swept the room, and several Councilors flinched. "I arrived mere moments before you, having made excellent time from the eastern provinces. I had hoped to find the Council conducting itself with dignity and wisdom. Instead..." He shook his head with theatrical sorrow. "Instead, I find Miss Seraphina being threatened, baseless accusations flying, and Viscount Varrow apparently attempting physical assault."
James's hand moved to his sword hilt—instinctive, though Seraphina saw the tremor in his fingers that revealed how barely he was holding himself upright. Blood pooled at his feet.
Varrow stumbled backward, face draining of color as the Marquess's gaze locked onto him. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Marquess Celosia, I—there were questions—the circumstances suggested—"
"Suggested?" James's tone was conversational but edged with something that dropped the room's temperature. "You mean to tell me that my delay in reporting gave you license to threaten my betrothed?"
"It was not a threat, merely a... a discussion of political realities—"
"Political realities." James moved forward with deliberate pace, each step measured, inexorable. "Is it political reality that a Viscount may lay hands on a Lady of the realm?"
Varrow looked ready to collapse. He glanced toward the Third Prince for help. "Your Highness, I—the circumstances seemed to suggest—Lady Araminta's house has shown support for—" He stopped abruptly, realizing that finishing would be fatal.
"For me?" Ilyas supplied helpfully, smile sharpening to something predatory. "Yes, I'm aware that House Araminta has been... receptive to my perspective on certain matters of governance. As have several other houses on this Council." His gaze touched Varrow and other Councilors. "But I fail to see how that justifies threatening Miss Seraphina, who has done nothing but honor her engagement to a loyal servant of the Crown."
The defense was masterful in its cruelty. Ilyas publicly acknowledged House Araminta's support while positioning himself as Seraphina's protector, binding her more tightly to his faction even as he appeared to defend her honor. And he did it in front of James, ensuring the Marquess knew exactly where the political lines were drawn.
Seraphina felt the trap closing. In defending herself, she had played into a game whose rules she was only beginning to understand.
"Your Highness is too kind," she said carefully. "But I require no defense beyond truth and evidence. The accusations were baseless, as the Marquess's safe return proves. My loyalty to my betrothed—and through him, to the Crown—has never wavered."
It was deliberate vagueness about which Crown. The current King? The First Prince who would inherit? The Third Prince who sought to reshape that inheritance? She left the ambiguity hanging.
Ilyas's eyes gleamed with something that might have been approval or annoyance.
James, who had been watching with the focused attention of a tactician, shifted his weight deliberately. The movement drew every eye to the blood staining his tunic, the barely concealed pain, the reality that he had ridden through the night wounded to reach this chamber.
"Your Highness," he said roughly, "I appreciate your concern. However, I'd like to hear the Council's thoughts on other matters." His gaze pinned Varrow with barely concealed bloodlust. "Such as declaring me dead and reassigning my command. Voiding my engagement. Accusations of treason leveled against Lady Araminta."
Seraphina felt the weight of his words like a shield thrown over her—protection she desperately needed. He was reconstructing the scene from fragments, and his tactical mind was filling gaps with devastating accuracy.
Duke Rothwell rose slowly. "Marquess Celosia, perhaps you should sit. You're wounded, and—"
"I'll sit when I'm dead," James snapped, though the sway in his stance belied the bravado. "Until then, I'll stand. And this Council will explain why they were so eager to write my epitaph."
"The reports suggested there were no survivors," Baron Faraday ventured weakly. "We acted on available information—"
"Information provided by whom?" James demanded. "Who brought you word of my supposed death? Who painted the picture so convincingly?"
Silence. The kind that screamed guilt.
Seraphina rose from her seat, drawing every eye. She positioned herself where the Council could see her clearly.
"The Third Prince arrived just before you, Marquess," she said, voice steady and clear. "He entered as Viscount Varrow was attempting to strike me, as the Council debated declaring you dead, as accusations of treason were being leveled." She let her gaze move to Ilyas. "His Highness was kind enough to interrupt. To remind us of the dangers of acting hastily."
It was careful—technically accurate but laced with implication. She was not directly accusing Ilyas, but establishing a timeline, creating a record that could not be easily rewritten.
James's gaze moved between her and Ilyas, understanding dawning. "How fortunate that Your Highness happened to arrive at such an opportune moment. Almost as though you were expecting something interesting to occur."
Ilyas's smile finally faded, replaced by aristocratic indifference. "I arrived because I heard rumors of your disappearance. I thought it prudent to ensure the Council did not make any... irreversible decisions." He leaned forward slightly in the throne. "I'm pleased to see those concerns were unfounded. You are, after all, remarkably difficult to kill."
The last words carried weight. Not quite a threat. More like acknowledgment—recognition between predator and prey that the hunt was merely postponed.
Duke Rothwell spoke carefully. "Your Highness offers wise counsel. However, I would note that the King himself presided over this session before his departure. Any direction regarding the Council's conduct should perhaps come from His Majesty directly."
A flash of irritation crossed Ilyas's eyes, quickly suppressed. "Indeed, Duke Rothwell. I speak merely as a concerned member of the royal family, not as one who would presume to supersede my father's authority."
The exchange was brief, but Seraphina filed it away. Duke Rothwell was not yet fully aligned with either prince's faction. And Ilyas's irritation revealed that his confidence had limits.
"Miss Araminta," James said, the formal address carrying undertones that made her skin prickle. "I trust the Council has been... courteous during my absence?"
It was a test. An offer. A challenge.
Seraphina rose with deliberate slowness, spine straight. She met his gaze without flinching.
"The Council has been... illuminating, Marquess. I have learned a great deal about the nature of loyalty in your absence. And about the speed with which vultures gather when they believe the lion is dead."
Shocked murmurs rippled through the chamber. But James smiled—a baring of teeth before violence, the warning predators give before they strike.
"How... educational," he said softly, somehow more threatening than a shout. "I will require a full accounting of everything discussed in my absence. Every vote considered. Every suggestion made. Every implication that my death would be convenient."
Duke Rothwell cleared his throat. "Of course, Marquess. Though I should inform you that His Majesty departed before your arrival. He left the Council to... prove ourselves useful, I believe were his exact words."
"How generous of him," James replied evenly, though something flickered in his eyes. "Then I will report directly to His Majesty regarding the ambush, the identity of those who funded it, and the political implications thereof."
Another ripple of genuine fear. If James had evidence of who had paid for shadow magic and coordinated cavalry...
Heads would roll.
James took another step, his left leg nearly buckling. The wound in his side had reopened, fresh blood soaking through. He was running on fumes and fury.
Seraphina moved without thinking, crossing the space in four quick strides. Propriety be damned. He had ridden through hell to defend her, and she would not watch him bleed out on marble floors.
"Marquess," she said quietly, reaching his side, close enough that only he could hear. "You're about to fall. Let me help you, or I swear by every dragon in heaven I will make you regret surviving that ambush."
James stared at her, astonishment flickering across his exhausted features. Then—so quietly no one else could hear—he breathed, "Tyrant."
She positioned herself at his side, offering support, a silent declaration that whatever came next, he would not face it alone.
"The Marquess requires medical attention," she addressed the Council, particularly Duke Rothwell. "And answers require time to gather properly. I suggest this session be adjourned until the Marquess has recovered."
It was a gamble—offering Ilyas an exit without losing face, while buying time.
Duke Rothwell nodded. "Lady Araminta speaks sense. Marquess, you have proven your survival. The Council's premature deliberations are clearly moot. We can reconvene when you are able to provide a detailed report."
James turned once more to Viscount Varrow. With slow, deliberate gesture, he removed a blood-soaked riding glove and threw it down before the man with a wet splat.
"Your accusations and assault against Miss Seraphina, my betrothed, will be formally addressed." As he spoke her name, James turned sharply and made direct eye contact with the Third Prince. "If you follow court protocol, you know what a glove like this means."
There was a momentary flinch in Ilyas's eyes before he rose from the throne with fluid grace. "Then I believe we are concluded. For now." His gaze moved to Seraphina, and she felt its weight like physical touch. "Miss Araminta, I look forward to our next conversation. Soon."
It was not a request.
"Your Highness honors me," Seraphina replied, the words perfunctory. They both knew the coming meeting would be anything but an honor.
Ilyas moved toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to glance back at James with an unreadable expression. "Do recover quickly, Marquess. The realm needs its Beast of the Battlefield healthy and whole. We have such interesting times ahead."
Then he was gone, doors closing with a soft click that sounded final.